The Young Adult Award-Winners Megapack

by Emily Cheney Neville

  Sir Frederick entered the low doorway and smiled upon Dame Pinchbeck. “I supposed thou wert going to take me to task for taking thy Roger’s savings. Truly, I do believe that with my venture I shall triple them.”

  “Nay, nay, Sir Frederick,” Dame Pinchbeck interposed. “I would not begrudge thee our savings even if thou couldst not triple them, but I did berate my goodman soundly,” and Dame Pinchbeck spoke with satisfaction.

  “’Tis for the good of his soul, I suppose.”

  “Ay,” answered Dame Pinchbeck, “and that he may not forget me. But what I would tell thee of, is this,” and she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Last night when Johanna was kidnapped, Marflete and Skilton did change the town coffer for the one that Marflete had.”

  “And what did they gain by that except to have one empty coffer in place of another?” said Sir Frederick, well assuming surprise, for he felt Dame Pinchbeck was not the best person to whom to tell all that he knew, and he thought in this way to put her suspicions to rest.

  “We think, Roger and I, that they do plan to get at the money that does pour in during the fair. They count upon that coffer being used, and Marflete has devised a queer key which will turn all the locks!”

  “What is this? A queer key!”

  “Ay, made out of a bone, and he claims to have lost it, but we do not believe it.”

  “A queer key made out of a bone!” and Sir Frederick’s expression changed suddenly as a thought struck him. Then he went on, “Thou didst well to warn me. I beg thee not to spread this, but we shall watch Marflete and Skilton closely, and await further developments.”

  When Sir Frederick reached home, which he did with more than usual alacrity, he took up again the sheep thigh which Johanna had brought and examined it. Then he went out shortly, taking it with him, and it was to the Guild Hall that he went.

  In all parts of the town preparations were going on for the Corpus Christi Fair. It was a spring blossoming of the town that was about to take place, for, being a religious festival as well as a great commercial affair, it would penetrate into every crooked alley and past every Gothic entrance to the hearts of homes and religious houses, and out would come a grand procession of townspeople in the rich vestments of the trade guilds, and of friars and priests and high officers of the church, bearing in their midst elaborately wrought sacred emblems.

  The Guild of Corpus Christi was preparing a miracle play which would be presented in different parts of the town from a stage on wheels. The stage for these plays was built in three tiers: the upper section for Heaven, and here cherubim would appear wrapped in wool to recite what was set down for them to say; the middle section was for the earthly players; and the lowest one was curtained off for the players’ dressing-room or used for the lower regions if the play should require that the wicked be thrust into smoke and flames.

  It was to the Corpus Christi Guild that the Pinchbecks belonged, and Goodman Pinchbeck was assigned the part of Abraham in the play of “Abraham and Isaac.” Stephen had to appear as the angel sent from Heaven, and Isaac was none other than Thomas Marflete.

  “I would I did not have to appear and save him from sacrifice,” Stephen confided in Dame Pinchbeck.

  “’Twould be as well to let him die methinks! And a good riddance it would be!”

  “That may be,” agreed Dame Pinchbeck, “but do thou appear as thou shouldst, else my goodman will forget his lines,” and she fell to repeating them in a loud and monotonous tone of voice:

  “My Lord to thee is my intent

  Ever to be obedient.

  That son that thou to me hast sent

  Offer I will to thee

  And fulfill thy commandment

  With hearty will as I am kent.

  High God, Lord Omnipotent,

  Thy bidding done shall be.”

  “Ay,” burst in Stephen, “and then does he make a sign as though he would strike off his head, and Isaac does look like the pasty-faced butcher’s lad that he be, and then do I enter and take the sword by the end and stay it,” and Stephen threw himself into the part and took on the position of the intervening angel.

  “Thou hast something of a player in thee, Stephen,” commented Dame Pinchbeck, watching him with interest, “but Roger Pinchbeck cannot even say his lines without hemming and hawing and mumbling over them. He does play the part of Abraham about as well as I would that of a cherub, dangling from the roof on a winch device.”

  Stephen burst into laughter at the thought of good Dame Pinchbeck thus performing.

  “But here hast thou been running wild in the fens for the best part of the day, with Roger needing thee in the workshop, and thou with the spirit of freedom still clinging to thee so that thou canst not stay at thy work. Get thee back ere Roger regrets that he spared thee a whipping!”

  Gilbert had yet to break the news to Stephen that Tod of the Fens had failed them. He had dined with Sir Frederick and stayed afterward to hear from Johanna about her midnight adventure. Both were tired and still excited so that the visit ended in a quarrel.

  “What wast thou doing in the fens?” questioned Johanna.

  “That I cannot tell thee,” answered Gilbert, whereupon Johanna was silent. “But why didst thou not tell me yesterday about the mysterious note thou didst find?”

  “That I cannot tell thee,” Johanna mocked, and let the conversation stop there.

  “Come now, Johanna,” begged Gilbert, “do not be angry with me. Tell me everything that happened to thee!”

  “Nay,” answered Johanna pettishly, “I am tired of telling of it. When thou canst tell me of thy doings, then will be time enough.”

  “Then I had best leave thee,” said Gilbert, rising, but hoping that Johanna would turn friendly and delay him.

  “Ay,” answered Johanna, looking down, “thou canst go back to Lynn for all that I shall do to keep thee!”

  “Why, Johanna, and thou hast asked me to stay on for the great fair, and hast promised that thou wilt attend it with me!”

  “I did it without thinking,” replied Johanna haughtily, “but now that I do think, I think differently.”

  “Mayhap tomorrow when thou art not so tired, thou wilt think differently again.”

  “I am not tired,” denied Johanna, knowing full well that she was indeed, and a catch in her voice belying her. “But I am tired of thee and thou canst go!” With these impolite words Johanna flashed by, turning her flushed face away from Gilbert as she passed him.

  Gilbert hereupon sought Stephen in the workshop, where he had the good fortune to find him alone. One look at Gilbert’s face told Stephen that something had gone wrong with their plans.

  “Am I not to go down to meet Tod tonight?” questioned Stephen at once.

  “Canst thou believe it, Stephen, Tod was not there when I returned! He had disappeared with the money bags.”

  “Not there? Not by the oak tree?”

  “Nay, he did deceive us. He intended all along to get the money away from us and make off with it.”

  “I don’t believe it,” announced Stephen solemnly.

  “Dost believe that I did miss the place then?”

  “Nay, but for some good reason Tod did not stay. Tod of the Fens has no look of a thief.”

  “I would say that myself did I not know it to be otherwise,” answered Gilbert.

  “And what does Sir Frederick say?”

  “Sir Frederick also says Tod is a rogue and a thief.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Corpus Christi Day

  Tod, the rogue and thief, made his way a second time to Castle Bolingbroke and this time with greater success. Dismas had returned. “How now,” he greeted Tod, when he was brought into his presence by a grinning page. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Canst tell me what has been happening in the town of Boston since last I was there?”

  “I could tell thee better,” answered Tod, “if thou wert Dismas and not Henry of Monmouth, Prince of Wales.”

  Prince Henry laughe
d. “And why not? I did enjoy the part. To the fens again, and Dismas I will be until I must appear at the great fair in mine own right. Watch for me tonight, for I shall come.”

  That evening Tod and his band waited and watched and suddenly their ears caught the sound of a voice singing. Nearer and nearer it came across the lake, and soon the words could be distinguished.

  “The noble Moringer he smiled and then aloud did say,

  He gathers wisdom that hath roamed this seven twelvemonths and a day.”

  “He comes!” they cried, jumping to their feet. “Dismas comes!” The singing stopped, and a halloo sounded which was answered by a chorus of halloos. The next minute Dismas was in their midst. To the amazement of the fenmen, Tod approached Dismas and fell on his knees before him. The rest of them followed suit although they likewise did nudge one another and wonder with eyes outstarting.

  “Come, come! ’Tis not Prince Henry who has come but Dismas. Have ye forgot?”

  The fenmen stared, hardly able to comprehend the words he spoke.

  “Stupids! Stupids!” burst out Dismas, “up on your feet and close your gaping mouths. I say that I be Dismas!”

  Tod rose and motioned to the others who also rose quickly, all but Tom True Tongue. He alone remained on his two knees, his hands stiffly by his side, his head thrown back, and his mouth open.

  “And what ails him?” Dismas asked.

  Wat poked him with a cudgel he held, and Tom scrambled quickly up, suddenly realizing that every eye was upon him. He grinned sheepishly and said, “Sir Popinjay was right. The day has surely come when I be Tom Tongue Tie!” Dismas and the fenman laughed at the sight of his comically perplexed face.

  “To the ducking stool thou shouldst go,” said Dismas, “but I will let thee off, for I have been told of the drenching thou didst get. Ho! Ho! I should have liked to be there. But let us waste no time! Tell me what has been happening since last I saw ye.”

  When Tod told of the Marflete and Skilton plot, Dismas’s face became serious. “But the money, where is it now?” he asked.

  “Yonder in the hut,” answered Tod.

  “I can see my part is not yet finished,” sighed Dismas, “but it will be worth anything to be at hand when the coffer is opened and the money is found again. It must be on Corpus Christi Day, and when the Prince of Wales looks on! How many days to fair day?”

  “There be three, for it opens Thursday next,” answered Tod.

  “Quite enough!” said Dismas, “but I shall need the help of some of ye!”

  The next morning Sir Frederick was waited upon by Tom True Tongue, for Tod did not dare to take upon himself the mission.

  “So thou art from Tod of the Fens, the thief and the deceiver?”

  “Nay,” answered Tom, “if thou wilt hear me out thou wilt know I am from Tod of the Fens, thy servant and thy friend.”

  Sir Frederick did hear him out, and Tom True Tongue returned to the fens bearing news which made Dismas’s face become aglow with satisfaction.

  “Dost know,” said Dismas, “I shall never again try to stir up mischief. There be mischief enough in this world without our adding to it for pleasure.”

  “Ay, ay,” answered Tod, “and now it is meet for thee to know that we are going to give up our idle lives and serve thee as loyal subjects. To the sea we go on a good English merchant ship!”

  Dismas heard at length about Sir Frederick’s venture and the “White Swan of Boston.”

  “This Sir Frederick is a man after mine own heart,” he said, “and the Prince of Wales shall hear of him. But come, thou sayest he has a key to the coffer and can return the money if we get it safely to him?”

  “Ay,” answered Tom.

  “But thou hast not told him of the part I shall play?”

  “Nay,” answered Tom True Tongue. “He thinks it be Tod of the Fens who has made the plan and he is glad that Marflete and Skilton will be uncovered in their hypocrisy.”

  “They will be uncovered, and I wager that they will turn pale with fright and will think that St. Botolph himself has found them out and brought the miracle to pass. And who will play the part of the astrologer?” he asked suddenly, “for ’tis only by the aid of astrology and alchemy that this event can be brought about. ’Tis a magician that we need!”

  “Let Tom True Tongue here play the part! With thy coaching he can do it well enough!”

  So it was decided that Tom True Tongue would play the part of the magician, and called upon even by his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, he would perform before the townsfolk of Boston.

  Corpus Christi Day dawned. Boston had not rested for weeks preceding, with its coming of merchandise and merchants, of beggars, mountebanks, and strolling players, of knights in armor ready to take part in the tournament, and of ladies in their gay litters. Now it was adorned with booths and pavilions, with tiers of seats around the tilting yard and the archery butts, with the gayly streamered Maypole, and, above all, with a canopied dais before the Guild Hall, where the Prince of Wales would take his station and see the great procession. With him would be the lords and ladies of Boston, the high bailiff, and the leading men of the town.

  Mass was said, and the great day had begun. The narrow streets had been washed and cleaned in readiness for the fine robes that would sweep over them: robes of white damask covered with flowers of silk and gold; of tawny damask embroidered with gold eagles and emblazoned arms; of green velvet with roses of gold; of blue velvet with golden birds and angels; of white, violet, gray, and red satin of Bruges, ornamented with gold devices. Such was the grand procession, and all the townsfolk were on tiptoe with exhilaration.

  Prince Henry, richly clad in a scarlet robe with ermine trimmings, talked with Sir Frederick Tilney. He asked of the “White Swan of Boston,” and Sir Frederick Tilney, highly pleased, spoke openly of his great hope for England on the sea. Prince Henry listened, for the seeds which later when he was King Henry V blossomed forth into an active interest in the English navy, were beginning now to put forth roots. Below them as they talked the square seethed with upturned faces under kerchief, hood, cowl, helmet, feathered cap, and glittering headdress. The sound of music filled the air, and even the gray spires and turrets of the town sparkled as if hung with jewels for the great occasion.

  Prince Henry turned from Sir Frederick to the high bailiff. To him he spoke of the rumor of the theft of the town funds. What was the truth of the matter? Hugh Witham spoke briefly. The keys were taken; the coffer was robbed; it was not unusual in this time when rogues were many.

  “I have seen today a clever astrologer whom I have met elsewhere. ’Twould give me pleasure to have him bring his art to bear on this theft. Mayhap with his instruments he could discover what took place, and perhaps even disclose where the treasure now lies hidden. What sayest thou?”

  Hugh Witham raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders.

  “If it would give thee pleasure, that is enough of a reason for employing him. We’ll seek him out.”

  The word was passed below, and voices took up the message, and passed it on. “The astrologer with the long beard!” “The astrologer with the long beard!” Shortly the crowd gave way before a black-gowned figure, clasping in his arms a motley collection of books, spheres, instruments, and bones, and ringing as he came his small hand bell. He was lifted up on to the front of the dais where he huddled, still clinging tightly to his strange paraphernalia. Prince Henry spoke to him, whereupon he scrambled to his knees.

  “If thy skill be good for aught, do thou read on thy chart and tell us something of the theft from the town coffer, that occurred in this town two months past.”

  The astrologer bent his grizzled head. Then he retired to the edge of the dais.

  “Order the town coffer here!” he requested in a deep sepulchral voice.

  Out from the Guild Hall came the town coffer, and up on the dais it was handed, while the crowd stood below, amazed at the unexpected proceedings. The astrologer muttered over his
charts. Then he spoke again to the prince who turned to the high bailiff.

  “Be there any two townsmen by the name of Marflete and Skilton? The astrologer wants them.”

  Again the word was passed, and over the heads of people came the kicking, struggling Alan Marflete and the pale, shaking Skilton. Room was made for them and they stood bewildered and shaking beside the coffer. By this time the crowd was shouting and pushing. Prince Henry raised his hand for order.

  “What have these two men to do with it?” Prince Henry asked the astrologer. But the astrologer only shook his head and returned to the reading of his conjuring book. Then taking up the bones, he advanced to the coffer. He placed one of them on top and rapped around the edges with another. Then to the locks he went and there was a grating sound as the bone passed from one to another. At this point Marflete shrieked, and jumped down from the dais, only to be caught by Tod of the Fens, who was standing below, and hoisted up in great terror. The astrologer raised the lid of the coffer.

  The crowd surged forward. There were shouts from the other side of the market place. The Prince leaned over and held up in succession, one, two, three money bags.

  He turned to the high bailiff, whose face was purple with amazement.

  “Why, how now!” Prince Henry expostulated, “me-thought there was a theft.” Then letting the lid to the coffer fall, he sat down on it and burst into a great laugh.

  “The money is there! The money is there!” shrieked the townsfolk, and seeing the prince rocking back and forth they took up the laughter, and the square rang with it.

  When one wave after another had passed over, each one increasing as more people got over their dumb amazement and joined in, it was suddenly discovered that Marflete and Skilton and the astrologer had slipped away from the dais.

  Prince Henry ordered the coffer back to the Guild Hall.

  “Do thou remove the treasure from that chest,” he commanded the high bailiff. “The coffer is bewitched and must be burned forthwith. That is my command.”

  The high bailiff nodded, for his tongue was still stiff with stupefaction.